Midway between the out-bursting stream of water and the rock-slide,
Henry and Ricardo stood in hurried debate. Beside them, crouched on the
ground, moaned and prayed the last priest of the Mayas. From him, by
numerous shakings that served to clear his addled old head, Henry had
managed to extract a rather vague account of what had occurred inside
the mountain.
“Only his son was bitten and fell into that hole,” Henry reasoned
hopefully.
“That’s right,” Ricardo concurred. “He never saw any damage, beyond a
wetting, happen to the rest of them.”
“And they may be, right now, high up above the floor in some chamber,”
Henry went on. “Now, if we could attack the slide, we might open up the
cave and drain the water off. If they’re alive they can last for many
days, for lack of water is what kills quickly, and they’ve certainly
more water than they know what to do with. They can get along without
food for a long time. But what gets me is how Torres got inside with
them.”
“Wonder if he wasn’t responsible for that attack of the Caroos upon us,”
Ricardo suggested.
But Henry scouted the idea.
“Anyway,” he said, “that isn’t the present proposition——which
proposition is: how to get inside that mountain on the chance that they
are still alive. You and I couldn’t go through that slide in a month. If
we could get fifty men to help, night and day shifts, we might open her
up in forty-eight hours. So, the primary thing is to get the men. Here’s
what we must do. I’ll take a mule and beat it back to that Caroo
community and promise them the contents of one of Francis’ check-books
if they will come and help. Failing that, I can get up a crowd in San
Antonio. So here’s where I pull out on the run. In the meantime, you can
work out trails and bring up all the mules, peons, grub and camp
equipment. Also, keep your ears to the cliff——they might start
signalling through it with tappings.”
* * * * *
Into the village of the Caroos Henry forced his mule——much to the
reluctance of the mule, and equally as much to the astonishment of the
Caroos, who thus saw their stronghold invaded single-handed by one of
the party they had attempted to annihilate. They squatted about their
doors and loafed in the sunshine, under a show of lethargy hiding the
astonishment that tingled through them and almost put them on their
toes. As has been ever the way, the very daring of the white man, over
savage and mongrel breeds, in this instance stunned the Caroos to
inaction. Only a man, they could not help but reason in their slow way,
a superior man, a noble or over-riding man, equipped with potencies
beyond their dreaming, could dare to ride into their strength of numbers
on a fagged and mutinous mule.
They spoke a mongrel Spanish which he could understand, and, in turn,
they understood his Spanish; but what he told them concerning the
disaster in the sacred mountain had no effect of rousing them. With
impassive faces, shrugging shoulders of utmost indifference, they
listened to his proposition of a rescue and promise of high pay for
their time.
“If a mountain has swallowed up the Gringos, then is it the will of God,
and who are we to interfere between God and His will?” they replied. “We
are poor men, but we care not to work for any man, nor do we care to
make war upon God. Also, it was the Gringos’ fault. This is not their
country. They have no right here playing pranks on our mountains. Their
troubles are between them and God. We have troubles enough of our own,
and our wives are unruly.”
Long after the siesta hour, on his third and most reluctant mule, Henry
rode into sleepy San Antonio. In the main street, midway between the
court and the jail, he pulled up at sight of the Jefe Politico and the
little fat old judge, with, at their heels, a dozen gendarmes and a
couple of wretched prisoners——runaway peons from the henequen
plantations at Santos. While the judge and the Jefe listened to Henry’s
tale and appeal for help, the Jefe gave one slow wink to the judge, who
was his judge, his creature, body and soul of him.
“Yes, certainly we will help you,” the Jefe said at the end, stretching
his arms and yawning.
“How soon can we get the men together and start?” Henry demanded
eagerly.
“As for that, we are very busy——are we not, honorable judge?” the Jefe
replied with lazy insolence.
“We are very busy,” the judge yawned into Henry’s face.
“Too busy for a time,” the Jefe went on. “We regret that not to-morrow
nor next day shall we be able to try and rescue your Gringos. Now, a
little later——”
“Say next Christmas,” the judge suggested.
“Yes,” concurred the Jefe with a grateful bow. “About next Christmas
come around and see us, and, if the pressure of our affairs has somewhat
eased, then, maybe possibly, we shall find it convenient to go about
beginning to attempt to raise the expedition you have requested. In the
meantime, good day to you, Senor Morgan.”
“You mean that?” Henry demanded with wrathful face.
“The very face he must have worn when he slew Senor Alfaro Solano
treacherously from the back,” the Jefe soliloquized ominously.
But Henry ignored the later insult.
“I’ll tell you what you are,” he flamed in righteous wrath.
“Beware!” the judge cautioned him.
“I snap my fingers at you,” Henry retorted. “You have no power over me.
I am a full-pardoned man by the President of Panama himself. And this is
what you are. You are half-breeds. You are mongrel pigs.”
“Pray proceed, Senor,” said the Jefe, with the suave politeness of
deathly rage.
“You’ve neither the virtues of the Spaniard nor of the Carib, but the
vices of both thrice compounded. Mongrel pigs, that’s what you are and
all you are, the pair of you.”
“Are you through Senor?—quite through?” the Jefe queried softly.
At the same moment he gave a signal to the gendarmes, who sprang upon
Henry from behind and disarmed him.
“Even the President of the Republic of Panama cannot pardon in
anticipation of a crime not yet committed——am I right, judge?” said the
Jefe.
“This is a fresh offense,” the judge took the cue promptly. “This Gringo
dog has blasphemed against the law.”
“Then shall he be tried, and tried now, right here, immediately. We will
not bother to go back and reopen court. We shall try him, and when we
have disposed of him, we shall proceed. I have a very good bottle of
wine——”
“I care not for wine,” the judge disclaimed hastily. “Mine shall be
mescal. And in the meantime, and now, having been both witness and
victim of the offense and there being no need of evidence further than
what I already possess, I find the prisoner guilty. Is there anything
you would suggest, Senor Mariano Vercara é Hijos?”
“Twenty-four hours in the stocks to cool his heated Gringo head,” the
Jefe answered.
“Such is the sentence,” the judge affirmed, “to begin at once. Take the
prisoner away, gendarmes, and put him in the stocks.”
* * * * *
Daybreak found Henry in the stocks, with a dozen hours of such
imprisonment already behind him, lying on his back asleep. But the sleep
was restless, being vexed subjectively by nightmare dreams of his
mountain-imprisoned companions, and, objectively, by the stings of
countless mosquitoes. So it was, twisting and squirming and striking at
the winged pests, he awoke to full consciousness of his predicament. And
this awoke the full expression of his profanity. Irritated beyond
endurance by the poison from a thousand mosquito-bites, he filled the
dawn so largely with his curses as to attract the attention of a man
carrying a bag of tools. This was a trim-figured, eagle-faced young man,
clad in the military garb of an aviator of the United States Army. He
deflected his course so as to come by the stocks, and paused, and
listened, and stared with quizzical admiration.
“Friend,” he said, when Henry ceased to catch breath. “Last night, when
I found myself marooned here with half my outfit left on board, I did a
bit of swearing myself. But it was only a trifle compared with yours. I
salute you, sir. You’ve an army teamster skinned a mile. Now if you
don’t mind running over the string again, I shall be better equipped the
next time I want to do any cussing.”
“And who in hell are you?” Henry demanded. “And what in hell are you
doing here?”
“I don’t blame you,” the aviator grinned. “With a face swollen like that
you’ve got a right to be rude. And who beat you up? In hell, I haven’t
ascertained my status yet. But here on earth I am known as Parsons,
Lieutenant Parsons. I am not doing anything in hell as yet; but here in
Panama I am scheduled to fly across this day from the Atlantic to the
Pacific. Is there any way I may serve you before I start?”
“Sure,” Henry nodded. “Take a tool out of that bag of yours and smash
this padlock. I’ll get rheumatism if I have to stick here much longer.
My name’s Morgan, and no man has beaten me up. Those are
mosquito-bites.”
With several blows of a wrench, Lieutenant Parsons smashed the ancient
padlock and helped Henry to his feet. Even while rubbing the circulation
back into his feet and ankles, Henry, in a rush, was telling the army
aviator of the predicament and possibly tragic disaster to Leoncia and
Francis.
“I love that Francis,” he concluded. “He is the dead spit of myself.
We’re more like twins, and we must be distantly related. As for the
senorita, not only do I love her but I am engaged to marry her. Now will
you help? Where’s the machine? It takes a long time to get to the Maya
Mountain on foot or mule-back; but if you give me a lift in your machine
I’d be there in no time, along with a hundred sticks of dynamite, which
you could procure for me and with which I could blow the side out of
that mountain and drain off the water.”
Lieutenant Parsons hesitated.
“Say yes, say yes,” Henry pleaded.
* * * * *
Back in the heart of the sacred mountain, the three imprisoned ones
found themselves in total darkness the instant the stone that blocked
the exit from the idol chamber had settled into place. Francis and
Leoncia groped for each other and touched hands. In another moment his
arm was around her, and the deliciousness of the contact robbed the
situation of half its terror. Near them they could hear Torres breathing
heavily. At last he muttered:
“Mother of God, but that was a close shave! What next, I wonder?”
“There’ll be many nexts before we get out of this neck of the woods,”
Francis assured him. “And we might as well start getting out.”
The method of procedure was quickly arranged. Placing Leoncia behind
him, her hand clutching the hem of his jacket so as to be guided by him,
he moved ahead with his left hand in contact with the wall. Abreast of
him, Torres felt his way along the right-hand wall. By their voices they
could thus keep track of each other, measure the width of the passage,
and guard against being separated into forked passages. Fortunately, the
tunnel, for tunnel it truly was, had a smooth floor, so that, while they
groped their way, they did not stumble. Francis refused to use his
matches unless extremity arose, and took precaution against falling into
a possible pit by cautiously advancing one foot at a time and
ascertaining solid stone under it ere putting on his weight. As a
result, their progress was slow. At no greater speed than half a mile an
hour did they proceed.
Once only did they encounter branching passages. Here he lighted a
precious match from his waterproof case, and found that between the two
passages there was nothing to choose. They were as like as two peas.
“The only way is to try one,” he concluded, “and, if it gets us nowhere,
to retrace and try the other. There’s one thing certain: these passages
lead somewhere, or the Mayas wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble of
making them.”
Ten minutes later he halted suddenly and cried warning. The foot he had
advanced was suspended in emptiness where the floor should have been.
Another match was struck, and they found themselves on the edge of a
natural cavern of such proportions that neither to right nor left, nor
up nor down, nor across, could the tiny flame expose any limits to it.
But they did manage to make out a rough sort of stairway, half-natural,
half-improved by man, which fell away beneath them into the pit of
black.
In another hour, having followed the path down the length of the floor
of the cavern, they were rewarded by a feeble glimmer of daylight, which
grew stronger as they advanced. Before they knew it, they had come to
the source of it——being much nearer than they had judged; and Francis,
tearing away vines and shrubbery, crawled out into the blaze of the
afternoon sun. In a moment Leoncia and Torres were beside him, gazing
down into a valley from an eyrie on a cliff. Nearly circular was the
valley, a full league in diameter, and it appeared to be mountain-walled
and cliff-walled for its entire circumference.
“It is the Valley of Lost Souls,” Torres utterly solemnly. “I have heard
of it, but never did I believe.”
“So have I heard of it and never believed,” Leoncia gasped.
“And what of it?” demanded Francis. “We’re not lost souls, but good
flesh-and-blood persons. We should worry.”
“But Francis, listen,” Leoncia said. “The tales I have heard of it, ever
since I was a little girl, all agreed that no person who ever got into
it ever got out again.”
“Granting that that is so,” Francis could not help smiling, “then how
did the tales come out? If nobody ever came out again to tell about it,
how does it happen that everybody outside knows about it?”
“I don’t know,” Leoncia admitted. “I only tell you what I have heard.
Besides, I never believed. But this answers all the descriptions of the
tales.”
“Nobody ever got out,” Torres affirmed with the same solemn utterance.
“Then how do you know that anybody got in?” Francis persisted.
“All the lost souls live here,” was the reply. “That is why we’ve never
seen them, because they never got out. I tell you, Mr. Francis Morgan,
that I am no creature without reason. I have been educated. I have
studied in Europe, and I have done business in your own New York. I know
science and philosophy; and yet do I know that this is the valley, once
in, from which no one emerges.”
“Well, we’re not in yet, are we?” retorted Francis with a slight
manifestation of impatience. “And we don’t have to go in, do we?” He
crawled forward to the verge of the shelf of loose soil and crumbling
stone in order to get a better view of the distant object his eye had
just picked out. “If that isn’t a grass-thatched roof——”
At that moment the soil broke away under his hands. In a flash, the
whole soft slope on which they rested broke away, and all three were
sliding and rolling down the steep slope in the midst of a miniature
avalanche of soil, gravel, and grass-tufts.
The two men picked themselves up first, in the thicket of bushes which
had arrested them; but, before they could get to Leoncia, she, too, was
up and laughing.
“Just as you were saying we didn’t have to go into the valley!” she
gurgled at Francis. “Now will you believe?”
But Francis was busy. Reaching out his hand, he caught and stopped a
familiar object bounding down the steep slope after them. It was Torres’
helmet purloined from the chamber of mummies, and to Torres he tossed
it.
“Throw it away,” Leoncia said.
“It’s the only protection against the sun I possess,” was his reply, as,
turning it over in his hands, his eyes lighted upon an inscription on
the inside. He showed it to his companions, reading it aloud:
“DA VASCO.”
“I have heard,” Leoncia breathed.
“And you heard right,” Torres nodded. “Da Vasco was my direct ancestor.
My mother was a Da Vasco. He came over the Spanish Main with Cortez.”
“He mutinied,” Leoncia took up the tale. “I remember it well from my
father and from my Uncle Alfaro. With a dozen comrades he sought the
Maya treasure. They led a sea-tribe of Caribs, a hundred strong
including their women, as auxiliaries. Mendoza, under Cortez’s
instructions, pursued; and his report, in the archives, so Uncle Alfaro
told me, says that they were driven into the Valley of the Lost Souls
where they were left to perish miserably.”
“And he evidently tried to get out by the way we’ve just come in,”
Torres continued, “and the Mayas caught him and made a mummy of him.”
He jammed the ancient helmet down on his head, saying:
“Low as the sun is in the afternoon sky, it bites my crown like acid.”
“And famine bites at me like acid,” Francis confessed. “Is the valley
inhabited?”
“I should know, Senor,” Torres replied. “There is the narrative of
Mendoza, in which he reported that Da Vasco and his party were left
there ‘to perish miserably.’ This I do know: they were never seen again
of men.”
“Looks as though plenty of food could be grown in a place like this——”
Francis began, but broke off at sight of Leoncia picking berries from a
bush. “Here! Stop that, Leoncia! We’ve got enough troubles without
having a very charming but very much poisoned young woman on our hands.”
“They’re all right,” she said, calmly eating. “You can see where the
birds have been pecking and eating them.”
“In which case I apologize and join you,” Francis cried, filling his
mouth with the luscious fruit. “And if I could catch the birds that did
the pecking, I’d eat them too.”
By the time they had eased the sharpest of their hunger-pangs, the sun
was so low that Torres removed the helmet of Da Vasco.
“We might as well stop here for the night,” he said. “I left my shoes in
the cave with the mummies, and lost Da Vasco’s old boots during the
swimming. My feet are cut to ribbons, and there’s plenty of seasoned
grass here out of which I can plait a pair of sandals.”
While occupied with this task, Francis built a fire and gathered a
supply of wood, for, despite the low latitude, the high altitude made
fire a necessity for a night’s lodging. Ere he had completed the supply,
Leoncia, curled up on her side, her head in the hollow of her arm, was
sound asleep. Against the side of her away from the fire, Francis
thoughtfully packed a mound of dry leaves and dry forest mould.